a hundred thousand throats.
He touched his harp, and in the perfect silence was heard the strain of
the mermaid's song, and through it the pleasant ripple of summer waters
on the pebbly beach. Then the theme was changed, and on the air was
borne the measured sweep of countless oars and the swish of waters
around the prows of contending galleys, and the breezy voices of the
sailors and the sea-bird's cry. Then his theme was changed to the mirth
and laughter of the banquet-hall, the clang of meeting drinking-horns,
and songs of battle. When the last strain ended, from the mighty host a
great shout went up, loud as the roar of winter billows breaking in the
hollows of the shore; and men knew not whom to declare the victor, the
chief bard of Erin or the Skald of the northern lands.

In the height of the debate the cry arose that another competitor had
ascended the mound, and there standing in view of all was Fergus, the
huntsman's son. All eyes were fastened upon him, but no one looked so
eagerly as the princess.

He touched his harp with gentle fingers, and a sound low and soft as
a faint summer breeze passing through forest trees stole out, and then
was heard the rustle of birds through the branches, and the dreamy
murmur of waters lost in deepest woods, and all the fairy echoes
whispering when the leaves are motionless in the noonday heat; then
followed notes cool and soft as the drip of summer showers on the
parched grass, and then the song of the blackbird, sounding as clearly
as it sounds in long silent spaces of the evening, and then in one sweet
jocund burst the multitudinous voices that hail the breaking of the
morn. And the lark, singing and soaring above the minstrel, sank mute
and motionless upon his shoulder, and from all the leafy woods the birds
came thronging out and formed a fluttering canopy above his head.

When the bard ceased playing no shout arose from the mighty multitude,
for the strains of his harp, long after its chords were stilled, held
their hearts spellbound.

And when he had passed away from the mound of contest all knew there was
no need to declare the victor.[9] And all were glad the comely Fenian
champion had maintained the supremacy of the bards of Erin. But there
was one heart sad, the heart of the princess; and now she wished more
than ever that she had never made her hateful vow.

Other contests went on, but Fergus took no interest in them; and once
more he stole away to the forest